All in all, the dinner had gone well.

 Taking a leaf out of her former CO’s playbook, Samantha Hyland had hosted a private dinner in her quarters – a tradition that some ship’s captains liked to maintain the night before a ship embarked on its maiden voyage.

~ Calling this old girl a maiden might be somewhat of a stretch? ~ Sam thought to herself as she lay propped up in bed, enjoying a reassuring cup of Lapsang Souchong tea – the smoky aroma of the beverage gently permeating her quarters and soothing her nerves. Whilst the New Orleans vessel that lay all around her was of a distinctly older vintage – Sam was impressed on how its fledgling crew had come together to reactivate the ship and prepare it for its upcoming patrol mission.

Sam also congratulated herself for the foresight to engage the Ships – Special Services Division Coordinator to plan and execute the important meal. With a drowsiness that only comes after a truly excellent meal – the new CO of the USS Savannah is also keenly aware of how nice it is to have someone to clear away the aftermath of such a meal.

Crewman Kennedy Zhao was the consummate hospitality professional – insightful in her culinary choices (as Lieutenant T’Vran, like most Vulcans, was a vegetarian – the menu had been plant – based and truly excellent), diplomatic in her wine pairings (after all the ship was departing drydock & putting out to space tomorrow – even though there were frighteningly effective restoratives available – no one really wanted to sully their own experience of an event best enjoyed with a clear head) and had demonstrated her quietly confident mastery of social dynamics – by ensuring that the seating plan ensured the most harmonious pairings of her guests around the table.

Samantha was keenly interested to see what Kennedy made of the 7 – Forward area, that she had been brought aboard to transform into the ship’s main social attraction. Sam smiled at this thought as she sipped her tea (caffeine was another drug that seemed to have the opposite effect on her – she could cheerfully drink a cup and fall easily asleep) and reviewed the flow of the evening in her mind.

T’Vran was outwardly the very stereotype of a Vulcan Starfleet Officer, conservative and controlled – but Sam had seen in the young woman a definite flair for strategy as she steered conversations around the table – a woman used to be in control and exhibiting the ghost of a wry sense of humor. As an Executive Officer, Samantha was confident Lieutenant T’Vran would be dependable and be a positive asset to her command.

Dr Alison Reynard was both mirror and antipode to the Vulcan seated next to her. The Second Officer of the USS Savannah was also its Ships Doctor and Lieutenant Reynard certainly held herself as someone who was both fastidious as a clinician and used to people following her orders – but the young woman of Swiss – French descent had an easy – going bedside manner and enlivened the conversation – noting those drifting towards its peripheries and re-engaging them through the deployment of subtle conversational lures. Despite her accent, Dr Reynard had been born and raised on Starbase 72 and was the only officer that Samantha was passingly familiar with.

The ship’s Chief Engineer Lt (Jg) Carlito Herrera was distracting in the extreme. Despite her position as Commanding Officer – Samantha Hyland found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything at all when Herrera spoke. Of Puerto – Rican descent – the man was bewitchingly handsome, and she desperately hoped that she would not blurt out something wildly inappropriate in some Freudian slip – of – the – tongue when engaging him in conversation. More maddening still, the man seemed wholly unaware of the effect he had on others and was endearing (alluringly even) modest and (thank the Gods) maintained a keen focus on technical matters and to a lesser degree the sport of Soccer (which Sam knew next to nothing about – but had made a mental note to cram – up – on for the future).

“Whew molly!” Sam smiled at her herself at the memory and decided she would never get to sleep if her thoughts continued to circle around the utterly delicious Carlito Herrera.

Lt (Jg) Aldren Ballard was again a polar opposite to the smoldering Puerto – Rican he was sat opposite from. Tall, thin (not altogether uncomely in his own way) and possessing a distinct nervous energy, the Chief Science Officer looked like he would rather be anywhere else. His hands constantly were in motion, rearranging his cutlery and place – setting over and over – a compulsive tell of the man’s diagnosed Aspergers Syndrome (although he was brilliantly distracted by Kennedy Zhao – who managed to whisk away and replace the cutlery and glassware – to be replace with new spotless counterparts – this giving Ballard something new to focus his OCD tendencies on) – it was hard to imagine the man being comfortable anywhere really.

But then, as the dinner conversation rounded to matters scientific, a miraculous transformation seemed to take place – Dr Aldren Ballard became impassioned, insightful and possessing of a wonderfully wry sense of observational humor as he warmed to the subject of his vocation. Truly a man of contradictions and brilliance.

The prize for the most loquacious and gregarious person at the table easily went to the hulking Chief Security Officer, Lt (Jg) Myron Hayes (Sam had met him earlier when he escorted her wayward Ensigns back aboard from their sojourn in the SB72 brig). The only person aboard the New Orleans – class vessel actual born in the City of New Orleans, Myron Hayes has a deep, rich – musical voice that was inflected with the rich Cajun patois more commonly known as “Yat.”

Massive, slab – sided and intense when on duty, Chief Hayes was a person who projected utmost seriousness and control. Seated around a dinner – table with compatriots, Myron was suddenly warm, gregarious, engaging and had an obvious and abiding love of great food and good company – attributes that he admitted were symptomatic of being practically raised in his Uncle’s Bar in the Lower Garden district of the “Big Easy.” Although Myron Hayes looked like the linebacker that he had been at the Academy, he proved equally adept at playing the table as well as the field.

Lastly, out of deference to his experience and position as Chief of the Boat, Chief Petty Officer Talbot Manningly rounded out the guest list and brought a much – welcome maturity and sense of decorum to the table. Chief Manningly had recently reactivated his Warrant and re-joined Starfleet out of a sense of duty and obligation – to help rebuild its decimated ranks. An academic and historian – Talbot was able to regale his fellow guests with fascinating insights of how their modern Starfleet traditions had metastasized from the Naval traditions of several different species and cultures over time. Samantha appreciated the Chief for his calming and unifying effect on the young officers assembled and was keenly aware on how much that experience was both welcome and needed in these trying times.

Sam placed her now- empty cup on the nightstand and led back on her pillow and closed her eyes. As she drifted slowly off to sleep, her mind also drifted back to considering the two junior officers whose presence was markedly absent from the gathering and the reasons as to why this was the case.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: USS Savannah / Captains Ready – room / Deck 1

Date: 2401.7.3 / 10.32hrs (Station Time)

Lieutenant Commander Samantha Hyland was busy going through a veritable mountain of data, administration and avalanche of Datapads on her desk, when the door-chime softly warbled, and she looked up from this travail and confirmed.

“Enter.”

There had been no time for Sam to unpack what little personal effects she possessed, and the small office-space was besieged by the temporary battlements of packing – crates. Into this battleground of detritus loomed a giant.

“Captain.” Boomed the giant as he entered the room, flanked and proceeded by two lesser beings. “Found these two ne’er do wells cooling their heels in the Station – Pokie.” Lieutenant Hayes rumbled as his train came to a halt in the station and disembarked two blue Ensigns onto her already crowded platform.

The new CO of the USS Savannah looked up at the faces of Ensign’s Bysea Wanat and Ithariar Sh’eshikrar as they stood to attention before them and made a poignant show of looking the recalcitrants’ up and down before craning her attention up to the altitudes where Chief Hayes normally cruised.

“Thank you, Chief Hayes, I’ll accept custody from here. That will be all. Dismissed.” 

Sam nodded curtly to the hulking security officer, who retreated from her brewing ire with a small, guarded smile on his broad face. The door hissed shut behind him.

Samantha let the silence linger and went back to her work, leaving the young Bolian and Andorian women standing to attention for so long, that eventually they began to eye each other from the corner of their eye and shift imperceptibly to relieve nervous tension in their muscles.

When Sam spoke, they both had to suppress the urge to startle.

“To say that I am disappointed is an understatement.” Samantha said as she finally raised her eyes to regard the pair, who wisely said nothing.

Looking first at Ensign Wanat and then her gaze lingering on Ensign Sh’eshikrar, she spoke levelly and without a trace of anger. Somehow this was actually worse for the pair than if the new CO had just let forth, incandescent with rage.

“My disappointment aside, it is your own lack of judgement that is of more pressing concern to me. Your actions aboard the Starbase are inexcusable and fall far, far below the expectation of the standard of behavior required by Starfleet and demanded by me for officers assigned to this command.”

Samantha picked up a PADD and reviewed the particulars of the arrest report.

“That officers under my command showed the incredible poor judgement to enter into an altercation with civilians’ shows a marked shortfall in character. That those same officers the exhibited the appalling level of judgement to engage in a brawl with same civilians in a public area of a Federation Starbase is beyond intolerable.”

“It was a question of honor Captain.” Ensign Sh’eshikrar frowned mightily, her face a mask – but her prehensile antennae writhing in frustration.

“AND WHAT OF THE HONOR OF THIS SHIP!?” Sam slammed the datapad down on the desk and barked – making both Ensigns jump in shock.

Ensign Sh’eshikrar wisely elected to view this last as rhetorical.

“You speak of honor – yet where is the honor in engaging in a common brawl with a group of Nausicaans over a bloody Squash – court booking?” The CO warned, “You speak of honor as if it is your due, honor is something that has cachet and must be earned Ensign. A lesson that, in your immaturity, it is obvious that you pay only lip – service to.”

Sam composed herself. She had not intended that outburst and had taken great pains not to present herself as that kind of commander – but the sheer idiocy of this situation – when she had so many more pressing responsibilities to shoulder, so much riding on the success of her first command – had caused Sam to inadvertently vent her warpcore.

“Our orders are to restore this vessel to operational – status and depart Drydock in all due haste.” Lieutenant Commander Hyland glowered at the pair. “My crew is unblooded and lacking in experience. The positions you both hold aboard ship would traditionally be held by more experienced, more mature officers.”

Sam stressed this last as she put her hands on the table. Cards for all to see.

“Your performance today gives me grave doubts as to your level of maturity and capacity to fulfil a leadership role aboard this vessel. If I had my way, I would see you both demoted and your Departmental roles assigned to other officers. As it is. I do not have that luxury. At the end of the day, I have to work with the tools that I have been given.”

If the pair felt any sense of reprieve at this turn of proceedings, they were wise enough to keep it internalized.

“From this moment forth, you will dedicate your waking and working hours to considering the depths of my disappointment and coming up with ways to restore my faith in your maturity, capability and good – judgement, is that understood?”

“AYE Captain!” Wanat and Sh’eshikrar reported back, with feeling.

“Very good. Ensign Wanat – I see from the duty allocations that we still have 6x Shuttlecraft out of our total complement of 9x assets still to be ferried aboard. I want you to personally fly each transfer out from the Starbase and make sure that every – single – one is operating to peak efficiency. Diagnostics on the XO’s desk by Fourteen – Hundred hours. Dismissed!”

“Aye – AYE Captain!” The young Bolian Helm Officer did a smart about – face and departed smartly to engage in a morning’s activity that was considerably below her “Pay – grade.”

Which left the Andorian Ensign, Ithariar Sh’eshikrar, standing alone with her antennae twitching in annoyance.

“Which leaves you Ensign Sh’eshikrar.” Samantha sighed and leant back in her chair to survey the young Tactical Officer levelly.

“You’ve got fight in you Ensign, and I need a TAC – Officer aboard with fight in her.” Sam acknowledged but then countered “But a warrior needs to know when to fight and maintain the clarity to know when not to fight. I understand from the security feed that it was you that instigated actual physical violence Ensign?”

“Yes Ma’am.” Ithariar managed through tight – lips.

“And your tactical evaluation for a lone Starfleet Officer engaging in hand – to – hand combat with three Nausicaan Mercenaries armed with, what, a Squash Racket? What was your strategy for victory in that engagement?”

“There was none, Ma’am, I let my anger color my judgement.” Ensign Sh’eshikrar said with cold regret.

“On that, at least, we can agree on.” Samantha looked down at her PADD again. “It seems that you do have some capacity for retrospection at least. You’re going to work on that attribute whilst you oversee the loading of ordinance for the ventral multi – mission torpedo pod. I see that final checks are being finalized and the first complement of Photon Torpedo’s are scheduled to be beamed over in 15 minutes. I suggest that you hurry Ensign.”

“Aye – Aye Captain!” Ithariar responded with icy resolve – her antennae saying it all as she turned to depart the ready room.

“Oh, and Ensign?” Sam called out, causing the Andorian to pause and look back.

“Yes Captain?”

Sam made a casual show of disinterest as she resumed her reading.

“Who won?” She asked mildly.

“The Squash – match?” Ensign Ithariar Sh’eshikrar looked confused.

“The fight.” Sam confirmed without looking up.

“Starfleet of course.” Ithariar smiled a thin, cold smile.

“Very good, carry on Ensign.”

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: USS Savannah / Captains Quarters / Deck 6

Date: 2401.7.4 / 00.11hrs (Station Time)

In the night Sam was awoken by her dead father.

A familiar, eerie blue glow permeated her closed eyelids, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Sam felt her stomach bottom out and was tempted to give into the childish urge to pull the bedclothes over her face and hope that the nightmare went away. But a starship captain meets the challenge head -on, so she forced herself to open her eyes.

Jonas Hyland was sitting opposite her bed, in the small chair, that she had carelessly flung her dress on when she had retired, looking pretty much as he had in life.

Except when he had been alive, Dr Jonas Hyland had been one of the foremost Xenoarcheologists in the Federation and (whilst paternally warm – enough) had been technically estranged from Samantha for many years before his untimely death and had not visited her bedside since she had been suffering from Altarian – encephalitis when she was 12 years old.

Jonas Hyland also never had had two cold – faceted glowing blue crystals where his warm hazel eyes had once been either.

This broke Sam from her spell, and she asked the intruding specter tiredly, “Are you really here or am I going mad?”

The thing that had once been her father shrugged diffidently, as if this was of no consequence and responded cryptically.

“A hello is normally nice Sammie, but I suppose we can waive the niceties.” Jonas smiled unnervingly. “As to where here is, I suppose that I am everywhere in a manner of speaking, whereas you are most certainly where you are.”

Sam pushed herself up on her pillows, her patience for this obtuse apparition wearing thin. Either this was a dream, a waking manifestation of the extreme stress that she had enduring during the Primarion Incident, or she really was just losing her mind. Either way, it would make for an interesting session with Ensign Sabreen el-Hannan, the Ship’s Councilor, when they met for their next scheduled session.

As if reading her mind, her father continued.

“A wise man once said that “Only the Insane have strength enough to Prosper, but only the Prosperous judge what is Truly – sane.”

“Sounds like something Nok would say.” Sam grimaced, impatient to unravel the point to the Shade’s nighttime visit.

The thing that looked like Jonas Hyland laughed (the effect jarring when taken with those softly glowing crystal eyes) “Yes it does, doesn’t it? What ever happened to young Nok anyway?”

“He died in a bar – fight on Deep Space 47, six years ago.” Sam snapped, outwardly irritated now. Whatever this apparition was, she disliked the way it mined her memories with casual intimacy. “The 23rd Rule of Acquisition was always a favorite of his. He was so literal-minded.”

“‘Nothing is more important than your health… except for your money.’ Shame – I always liked him.” Jonas murmured and picked up a picture of happier times, when her mother had also been alive. At this point, Sam had decidedly had enough, and she demanded,

“Is there any point to this? I have a busy day planned tomorrow, taking a broken-down old starship out for a run at certain danger and so on – I really could use my beauty – sleep.” She said scathingly.

“Oh! Yes! Silly me! Ever the absent – minded professor eh – even now!” The shadow of Jonas Hyland quipped lightly and put the picture back down on the occasional table. “I’ve come to deliver a warning Sammie.” He said simply, his blue eyes glowing with soft light.

“A warning, would you care to be a little more specific (she refused to call him “Daddy” – to do so would justify this farce), it’s a big Galaxy out there, after all?” Sam frowned.

Jonas Hyland made a show of puffing out his cheeks and clapping his hands together as he rose.

“More than you know Sammie, more than you could ever know.” He nodded sagely. “I wish I could be more forthcoming, but…well… you’re going to see for yourself soon enough.”

“See what?” Sam demanded, her fists tight with handfuls of bed sheets.

“The Way will open Sammie. Untold wonders and all that. From what I understand it’s all going to be very exciting. But for now, I think you might want to focus on problems a little closer to home…?”

“What!” Samantha Hyland wondered and was rudely wrenched back to consciousness by a persistent and familiar sound that made her stomach drop once again.

Yellow – Alert.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Location: USS Savannah / Bridge / Deck 1

Date: 2401.7.4 / 00.12hrs (Station Time)

Lieutenant Commander Samatha Hyland exited the Turbolift, still buttoning up her uniform collar and strode purposefully onto the bridge.

Lieutenant T’Vran was currently Officer-of-the-Watch and the XO made to rise from the Captain’s chair and relinquish command to the CO, but Sam waved her down. When she took the chair, it would be her own good time.

“Number one, report!’ Sam ordered and the Vulcan responded smoothly.

“Yellow Alert has been declared throughout the ship, Captain.’ Lieutenant T’Vran reported. “During the loading of ordinance to the ventral MMP, it is reported that a Photon Torpedo accidently switched to arming mode and the officer-in-charge ordered the compartment evacuated and a Class -1 Emergency Forcefield be raised to isolate the pod from the rest of the vessel.”

~That shouldn’t be possible? ~ Sam reasoned, but there would be time for forensic evaluation later. If there was to be a later.

Sam strode over to the Multifunction display at the back of the bridge and began to pull up telemetry for the additional torpedo pod that had recently been mated to the belly of the USS Savannah.

“Quick thinking, has the MMP been fully evacuated of personnel?” Sam enquired, willing to sleep from her mind and trying to focus her priorities.

“The MMP has been fully evacuated, bar the OIC that was overseeing the loading & inventory of the ordinance – Ensign Sh’eshikrar remains in the Pod.”

 __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: USS Savannah / Ventral Multi – Mission Pod

Date: 2401.7.4 / 00.13hrs (Station Time)

Ensign Ithariar Sh’eshikrar really wished that they would shut that bloody Yellow – Alert klaxon off.

The situation at hand was tense enough already and the young Andorian Tactical Officer was keenly aware that, if she did not concentrate now, then everyone aboard the USS Savannah (and possibly everyone aboard the other ships surrounding them in Drydock) would almost certainly die.

At least she wouldn’t know anything about it, if that did come to pass, but Ithariar was determined that her death would be a warrior’s death, and this was not such – so she wiped the sweat from her brow and renewed her focus on her tricorder and she attempted to locate exactly which Torpedo was “Cooking – Off”

In her mind’s – eye, she was counting down to the moment where it detonated and initiated the full complement of 80x – like munitions that Ithariar and her team had spent the last few, long hours receiving from the Starbase 72 Munitions Magazine via the Cargo Transporter in the Pod and squaring away into the Savannah’s own onboard inventory.

It had been crewman Miles that had first noticed. The young Ordinance Specialist had turned to Ithariar with his own Tricorder and a frown on his face – uncomprehending.

“Ensign, can you please check this data – it doesn’t look …well… right!”

It was far from right.

Each cluster of 6 x Photon Torpedoes were received in their transport rack by her team, checked, inventoried and then stowed for automatic loading into the fore and aft launchers. The Protocol demanded that the Isolinear – chips that enabled the receipt of the signal for the arming sequence to activate, were transported physically – separate from the munition and only installed by the senior Ordinance Officer, when the command came from the bridge to prepare the tubes for firing.

Somehow, a Photon Torpedo had been received aboard the MMP, with a chip already fitted and sometime during transport, this chip had activated.

Ithariar had immediately ordered the section evacuated and had raised an emergency forcefield in an attempt to compartmentalize a detonation.

But the young Andorian Tactical Officer was unsure if that would be sufficient to stem the likely catastrophic damage of a mass munition detonation and had no idea how long they all had left until the timer counted down to destruction.

She had to find the compromised Torpedo and she had to do it now.

“Bridge to Ensign Sh’eshikrar. This is the Captain – you are ordered to evacuate the MMP immediately. That is an order.” Came the voice of that damned high -and-mighty new Pink-skin Captain over her Commbadge.

Her antennae twitched with annoyance, and she responded tersely.

“I’m afraid I cannot do that Captain.” Ithariar did not have time for this, she continued to scan the magazine with urgently. She had to locate the ‘rogue – fish’.

“If the defective Torpedo initiates the others in the Pod, it’s highly likely that the resultant explosion will overwhelm the containment field. Decks 17 and 18 are immediately above me in the main hull, they both hold the Antimatter Storage Pods. If they are compromised, the resultant detonation will likely destroy the majority of the drydock and all the vessels and crews in the blast – front.”

There was a moment of silence as Ithariar frantically scanned torpedo casing after torpedo casing – why were there so many?!

“We can eject the entire MMP, if you get clear.” Commander Hylands voice countered, but even she did not sound convinced at this desperate course of action.”

Ithariar shook her head angrily, didn’t the bloody Pink-skin think that she hadn’t already thought of that?

“No guarantee that it won’t result in the same outcome.” She snapped – where the hell WAS it? “There’s not enough inertia to carry the MMP to a safe enough distance beyond the yard!”

Another pause, then.

“If you can get the Torpedo to the Cargo Transporter, we can beam it out beyond the perimeter, where it can detonate without lasting harm.” The CO responded, surer of this course of action.

Ithariar shook her head again, she was running out of time.

“Cargo transporter is locked-out under the control of Starbase Ordinance Division – it’s a safety protocol to ensure that a consignment of munitions is not mistakenly transported back to its point of origin – it will take time to cancel the lockout and resume control – time we don’t have!”

~ Doesn’t she know bloody anything!? ~ Ithariar raged inwardly, when she was brought up short by a chime and change of telemetry on her Tricorder.

“Bridge! I’ve located the ‘rogue – fish’.” Ithariar breathed with evident relief.

Amongst the serried ranks of identical, smooth casings, in a wall of recumbent death – Ithariar had located the defective Photon Torpedo. Her sensors showed that the Munition was indeed “Cooking – Off.” Without its arming failsafe in place, it would be a matter of seconds until everything and everyone in a 6-kilometer local radius was reduced to a smear of sub-atomic dust.

It was in the rear of the storage rack, facing the wall – she couldn’t physically reach it.

As she desperately tried to reach through the constriction of the frame, to reach the maintenance hatch on the Torpedo’s side, Ithariar knew in her heart that they were all doomed.

Then a desperate though crept into her mind and she keyed the commbadge once more.

“Captain, on my mark – I am going to drop the containment field. When I do so – you need to get the Personnel Transporter to lock onto my Commbadge signal and effect an instantaneous point – to – point transport – to the furthest point away from the Drydock that it can!”

Ithariar didn’t wait for confirmation, that would be spending a currency of time that they did not have.

Removing her commbadge from her uniform, the young Andorian desperately tried to reach through the confusion of the framework to affix the device to the casing of the defective torpedo. She tried very hard not to think of what would happen to her if any part of her body was in the beam – horizon when the transport was initiated.

It stuck. She keyed the channel with a blue fingertip that was trembling from sheer panic and exertion.

“MARK!”

A golden – swirl of complex energies was reflected, like a nebula in miniature, in the light of her desperate eyes.